


This Looks Bad

by capforgetful



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Background Stony - Freeform, Clint Barton deserves hugs forever, Deaf Clint Barton, Hugging, M/M, Panic Attack, Time Travel, de-aged Clint, established winterhawk, more tags to be added as needed, my bby, tiny feral Clint, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capforgetful/pseuds/capforgetful
Summary: Clint’s eyes cast around until he found Bucky again, wide and frantic. What the fuck, he signed.Bucky was frowning, but more worried, less angry. “That’s what we need Stark to explain,” he said. “Somehow, that’s -”“I know it’s me,” Clint snapped. “I have fucking eyes. What the fuck.” In his arms, the kid tensed, muscles going taught like a bowstring.---Clint wakes up with a concussion, a smaller version of himself in the next bed over, and no idea what was going on.





	1. Chapter 1

“Okay… This looks bad.

You cowboy around with the Avengers some. Guys got, what, armor. Magic. Super-powers. Super-strength. Shrink-dust. Grow-rays. Magic. Healing factors. I’m an orphan raised by carnies fighting with a stick and a string from the Paleolithic era. So when I say this looks “bad”?   
  
I promise you it feels worse.”

\- Hawkeye, Hawkeye #1 

* * *

 

The thing about Clint’s life that he could not have predicted is this: things explode a lot. Well, he might have had a proclivity toward things exploding, and there were at least two foster homes on record (if one were to look) (Coulson had looked) that had asked to relocate Clint due to certain incendiary inclinations. (He had set fire to drapes, mostly. He still maintained that he was doing them a favor.)  

But that was a long time ago, and honestly, he’d had nothing to do with causing this explosion. This was all on Tony. The entire situation, Clint thought, was Tony’s fault. Which was why it was completely unfair that Clint regained consciousness to a clean white-tiled ceiling, the smell of antiseptic, and Barnes glaring murder at him.

Clint blinked heavily, which did nothing to help the blurry vision, though it did, he hoped, help him appear sympathetic to Bucky. Bucky’s face remained unchanged. “Timeizzit?” Clint mumbled. Well. That was clearer than he’d hoped it would come out, anyway. Bucky could probably make sense of that. Yeah.

He watched Bucky pull a deep breath in, and then watched his lips say, “It’s four in the evening.” If possible, he looked even more unhappy. “You’ve been out for a little more than twelve hours.”

Well, shit. He must have hit his head pretty hard, then. He swallowed, and realized that he was very thirsty. _Water_ , he signed to Bucky. _Please._

Bucky shoved a straw into his face, and Clint grinned. “So,” he said once he had finished, “What’s up?”

“That’s what we’re trying to get Stark to explain,” Bucky said darkly.

“The hell does that mean?” Clint muttered.

Behind them, a crash and an indistinct sound of pain. Clint whipped his head around (ow) to see what the hell was causing so much noise in the med bay, and caught a flash of a small, sandy-haired kid on the tile. The kid scrambled out of the blankets he was tangled in, legs kicking to escape, chest heaving. Wide cornflower-blue eyes met his own, and then darted up toward the ceiling. Clint recognized the moment they settled on the air vent above the bookshelf on the far wall, and he said, “Fuck,” and threw himself out of bed.

He only caught the kid just before he could climb the shelf, wrapping his arms around the thin torso and holding on as the kid struggled and threw himself backwards, trying to break Clint’s face.

If the kid got into the vents, he wasn’t coming down.

Clint wouldn’t have come down.

Clint wrestled the kid to the floor, and ended up with the kids arms crossed in front of himself, like some parody of a hug, Clint holding both of his wrists so he couldn’t twist out of his grip. In this position, with the kid’s back pressed to Clint’s chest, he could feel the wild heaving breaths, the small sounds he made.

 _Panic attack_ , he thought. He pressed in close to the kid’s ear, held him tighter, and said, “No one looks up, don’t breathe, no one can hurt you.” This really worked better when he was up high. God, he hadn’t thought about this since -- since he was a kid. “No one looks up, don’t breathe, no one can hurt you. No one looks up, don’t breathe, no one can hurt you.”

Clint found himself rocking slightly with the repetition, and the kid was calming down in increments. At least he wasn’t actively fighting Clint’s grip any more. Clint’s eyes cast around until he found Bucky again, wide and frantic.

 _What the fuck,_ he signed.

Bucky was frowning, but more worried, less angry. “That’s what we need Stark to explain,” he said. “Somehow, that’s --”

“I know it’s me,” Clint snapped. “I have fucking eyes. What the _fuck._ ” In his arms, the kid tensed, muscles going taught like a bowstring. Clint clenched his jaw, but ducked his head close again, cooled his tone and murmured, “Say it. You say it.”

The kid hitched a breath, and then whispered, “No one looks up, don’t breathe, no one can hurt you.”

Clint looked back at Bucky, who was watching him with more emotion than he usually allowed to show through on his face. Clint hadn’t realized this was still a thing, but wow he hated this. It felt like a raw nerve, like something long buried had been unearthed. That shaking little kid who had been forced down was now sitting on the floor in front of Bucky. He couldn’t handle this.

Clint looked away, curled a little closer, and hugged himself.

 

* * *

 

The reprieve didn’t last very long. Tony came into the med wing only a few minutes later, when the kid -- what the hell was Clint supposed to call him? Mini-me? Clint 2.0? Little Barton? -- the kid had just taking steadier breaths. They were still pretty shallow, but at least they were even. Bucky hadn’t moved from his spot next to Clint’s bed.

Tony stopped a few feet inside, grinned, and said, “Oh, good, I see you’ve met yourself.”

Bucky glared at him. “This isn’t a joke, Stark.”

“Oh, come on!” Tony protested. Clint could feel the little Clint move his head a little, following Tony’s motions with his eyes. Clint eased his hold on the kid’s hands. “When am I going to have that opportunity again?”

“Hopefully never,” Bucky growled.  

Steve walked in behind Stark. “Tony, come on.”  

Tony threw his hands up, “All right, I don’t have to share my toys!”

“Tell them what you’ve found,” Steve said, stern.

Tony rolled his eyes, looked over at Clint, and then plopped himself onto the floor in front of them. “Okay. So, alternate universes, right?”

“Sure,” Clint said. The kid in his arms tensed and drew himself in, making himself smaller.

“Things get kind of weird with time travel -- that’s what happened, by the way, and it was my fault, _but I didn’t know it would mess with time, Steve!_ So, things go boom, time gets screwy, little-Barton ends up here, and the wormhole closes. Alternate universe established. Or, technically, the two timelines were kind of smushed together, he got stuck here, and we created a new one. And here we are.”

Clint stared at him for a moment. Tony was nervous. He didn’t talk this fast when he wasn’t nervous. “So, what you’re saying, is that this is permanent.”

Tony nodded. Clint was very aware of where Steve was standing, in the doorway, and Bucky standing near the hospital bed. “Okay,” he said quietly, because there wasn’t really anything else to say. The kid in his arms started squirming, which snapped Clint back to the moment. He held him tighter. “ _Don’t._ ” He looked around again. “Everybody who isn’t me, get out,” he said loudly.

“I see what you did there,” Tony said, but he was already standing up, herding Steve out of the room, so Clint didn’t say anything to him.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Clint swallowed down mean words that wanted to bubble up. He hadn’t said anything either, probably because he was used to being the exception to the _everybody leave_ rule. Clint usually let him stay as long as he didn’t talk, or make Clint talk, so fine. He could pretend Bucky wasn’t there, wasn’t staring at him, or staring at the skinny kid. Clint hefted the kid up in his arms like he was a bag of flour, he was so light. Jeez.

He remembered being this hungry, scared kid, but he’d never thought he’d looked so … hungry and scared. Clint put the kid down on the hospital bed. He scrambled back to press his spine to the wall, and Clint sighed. “I get that you probably don’t like me, cause I stopped you from scaling the walls, and you probably don’t trust me, but can you sit there for like five minutes? Please?”

The kid gave a cautious nod, his hand coming up to his face so he could chew on his thumb nail.

“Great,” Clint said. He closed his eyes. “I have a concussion,” he muttered. Bucky’s hand was suddenly on his back, and he felt two pills being pressed into his hand. He popped them into his mouth without thinking about it, and then a glass of water was pressed into the hand. Clint didn’t say thanks, though it was on the tip of his tongue. He knew Bucky was hovering, and that he’d probably been scared to hell when the explosion or whatever happened, but he couldn’t bring himself to care for Bucky right now. Mostly he didn’t want Bucky to say anything.

He opened his eyes again, and they settled on the kid. Who was staring back at him unabashedly. “You understand any of that Stark-talk?” he asked.

The kid nodded.

“You believe it?”

The kid nodded.

“Yeah,” Clint said. “So, I guess you’ll stick with me.”

“Where’s Barney?” the kid asked. Clint winced. Of course he would ask that, with the first voluntary words out of his mouth.

“Barney’s gone, kid,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle and not let through any of the anger or bitterness.

Still, the kid nodded a little, looking slightly deflated. “Yeah,” he said, “okay.”

Clint sighed. “Let’s get out of here. I hate hospitals.”

The kid jumped off the hospital bed, and Bucky looked like he was going to say something, but in the end he didn’t.

They went back to their shared floor – technically, Bucky had his own floor, but realistically he spent all of his time on Clint’s, so it was their shared floor. It was late in the day. Clint could see the sun setting through the wide windows on the west-facing wall. He hadn’t eaten in more than twelve hours, and his head hurt, so he ordered a pizza. 

Little Clint spent the half-hour waiting for the pizza by standing as close to the windows as he could, staring out over the city with wide eyes, and leaving fog from his breath on the bullet-proof glass. He didn’t volunteer any more words, but Clint could see the tension leak out of him, looking out over the city from up high. It was like being up a tree, but better.

Clint stood in the kitchen and watched, let the kid dart his eyes around the space and take it in, catalogue the hiding spaces. (Above the fridge, bookshelf near the television, air vent above the sofa, ledge over the bar). He felt Bucky come up beside him, his hand slide around his waist. He stood stiffly and still didn’t say anything. He felt like a dick, pushing away from Bucky. That Bucky would even reach out like this in the first place was a big thing, and Clint was shutting him down. He was an asshole.

The pizza arrived. Clint took the box to the living room, where he and Bucky ate, and tried to pretend that they didn’t notice little Clint stuffing his pockets with breadsticks. Clint resolutely didn’t look at Bucky, because he didn’t want to see the judgement or pity or disgust or whatever the normal reaction to that should be. He just gave little Clint an extra piece of pizza.

When it came time to retire to bed, Clint had a few seconds of hesitation. Did he let the kid go to one of the guest rooms? He had the space, obviously, but sending him off to sleep by himself seemed like a kind of dick thing to do? What if something happened? What if he was scared – Clint would be scared, hell, he was. But was it a better option to offer the kid to sleep in Clint’s room? No, sleeping next to a stranger would be worse, the kid wouldn’t sleep.

Little Clint seemed to sense the downward spiral of thoughts from the elder, so he muttered, “Just show me where to sleep.”

Clint nodded. Yeah. A locked door between him and everyone else would make him feel better. He showed the kid to a room, made sure he knew where to find Clint if he needed him, and then crawled into his own bed.

Bucky was already there. Clint turned his back to him and curled around a pillow. Bucky, undeterred, just molded himself to Clint’s back and firmly wrapped his arms around Clint’s middle. He tucked his face to the curve of Clint’s shoulder, and said, “I didn’t know you had a cute southern accent.”

Clint groaned and elbowed Bucky, who laughed. “Really? That’s what you have to say about this fuckall?”

“It’s cute,” Bucky said, defensive. “What do you want me to say?”

“It’s fucked up is what it is,” Clint muttered. “And I unlearned the accent for a reason.”

Bucky kissed the back of Clint’s shoulder. Uncharacteristically gentle for their usual interactions in bed. “You were a cute little feral child. And I grew up with Steve Rogers. I know little feral children.”

Clint shook his head. “Shut up.”

He felt Bucky grin against his shoulder. “Shut me up.”

 

* * *

 

When they woke, little Clint wasn’t in his room.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint only panicked for a minute. A few minutes. Half an hour.

Bucky, once he got out of the shower, only let it go on for a few more minutes before he sighed, looked up at the ceiling and said, “Jarvis, can you tell us where Clint-the-younger is, please?”

Clint froze and looked at Bucky.  _ I’m dumb _ , he signed. Jarvis announced, “Young Barton is in the communal dining area with Agent Romanoff. Would you like me to relay a message?”

“No,” Clint said. “It’s fine. We’ll head up there.” He shot Bucky a glare. “Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything, daddy bear.”

Clint stared at him in horror and then said, “Don’t ever say that again.  _ Please _ .”

“Only in bed?”

“ _ No.” _

When they arrived in the dining room, Clint hesitated for a few seconds in the doorway, watching the scenario. Little Clint was sitting at the table, on his knees, leaning over a plate. Natasha was sitting with him, sharing the breakfast from the plate, and chatting.

Natasha was chatting with him and he was chatting back. His grin was wide and easy, and he told her stories about the circus, about Barney, about the strongman and the fortune teller. About the Swordsman. He was picking fruit off the plate and eating it between words. Clint knew that the kid was enjoying the luxury of fresh-washed fruit that didn’t come from a can for probably the first time in years. 

Clint felt uncomfortably like Natasha was micro-analyzing little Clint, taking every story and dissecting it for all the information it was worth. Clint winced when the kid started in on a story about Barney. He still hadn’t noticed Clint or Bucky in the doorway. 

Little Clint leaned in toward Natasha and said quietly, “I don’t think we should talk about Barney, though.” 

“You don’t?” Natasha asked. Gentle. Leading. She handed little Clint a raspberry, which he plucked from her fingers. 

He shook his head. “Makes him sad.” 

“Clint?” 

The kid made an affirmative sound, eyes on the plate. 

“Why do you think Barney makes Clint sad?” Natasha asked. Dick. She already knew his history with Barney. 

“He leaves, doesn’t he?” The kid was fiddling with the edge of the plate. Stark’s ridiculous plates. Probably lined with gold. Probably the most expensive thing the kid had ever touched. “Everyone always does,” he said, soft but matter of fact. “But it’s okay. I’m okay on my own.” 

Natasha made a small sound of understanding. “Everyone needs someone, though.” 

Clint looked up at her, bright blue eyes steady. “Not me,” he said.

 

* * *

After breakfast, the kid clams up. Really, once he notices that someone other than Natasha was in the room, he went quiet. It frustrated Clint to no end. The kid couldn’t talk to him when they were the same person, but put Natasha in the room and it was story time. He looked at her across the table, grumpy. She stared back neutrally. 

The kid stuck some grapes in his pockets. 

Clint blew out a breath and inhaled over his mug of coffee. Bucky had refilled it for him, and then sat down as close as possible. The kid was dressed in new jeans and a t-shirt. Stark had apparently had things delivered overnight, which was good, Clint figured. So the kid had clothes. He couldn’t remember ever having clothes that nice when he was little. He probably never had. 

Bucky leaned back, one arm over the back of Clint’s chair. “So, you started shooting yet?” he asked the kid. Clint gave him a sharp look. 

Little Clint regarded him with narrow-eyed suspicion, and said, “Yeah.” 

“You any good?” Bucky asked. 

The kid blew out an indignant breath. “Trick says I’m the best.” 

“Oh yeah?"

“ _ Yeah. _ ” 

“You wanna show me?” Bucky asked. “We’ve got a shooting range here, you know.” 

“Buck,” Clint said quietly, his stomach tightening. Bucky ignored him. 

“You do?” the kid asked. Trying not to let on how much he wanted it. He looked to Clint.  “Is it for you?” 

“It’s for me and Bucky both,” Clint answered. 

“Finish breakfast and I’ll take you to see it,” Bucky offered. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Clint tried. 

“If I’m staying here, I want to shoot!” The kid shot Clint an injured look, almost betrayed, and Clint backed off.  

After breakfast, he followed both of them out to the range. The kid hadn’t seemed excited about anything the way he was excited to being allowed to shoot. He bounced, walking on the balls of his feet. Clint wondered if he’d always been so transparent to the adults in his life, or if just no one was looking. 

Natasha wound her arm through his and walked close to him. Great. He shot her another grumpy look, because  _ what did she think she knew now?  _ and she smiled placidly back at him.  

They entered the range a bit after Bucky and the kid, and by the time they arrived, Bucky was handing the kid a small compound bow. The kid, for his part, just looked amazed at the bow. He was still reserved, but he volunteered questions and his hands held the bow reverently. 

Clint frowned. “I’m not sure he should be shooting that?” he said. 

“It’s the lightest draw we have,” Bucky said. “It should be okay.” 

Little Clint held the bow tighter, as if he were afraid that someone was going to take it away. Clint wasn’t going to be the one to do that, so he just said, “All right,” and retreated to the back of the range with Natasha. 

Bucky got the kid set up with arrows, and then watched him draw, release -- and the arrow went wide, missing the target completely. 

Something twisted in Clint’s stomach. He saw the kid freeze for a split second, and then rush out, “I can do better.” 

Bucky just said, “Yeah, try again.” 

Little Clint adjusted his stance, positioned the arrow, and drew. It hit the target this time, the outer edge. Bucky didn’t say anything. The kid’s eyes darted to him, and then he set another arrow, and loosed it. It hit below the last one. 

Clint could feel something building, but he wasn’t sure what. Natasha rested her hand on his arm. “Bucky’s got it,” she murmured. 

Bucky stepped forward, reaching a hand out, and little Clint danced out of his reach, defensively insisting, “I can do better! I’ll be better!” 

Bucky stopped moving closer. “You’re doing good. You hit the target twice, man.” 

The kid shook his head harshly. “That’s not good,” he said derisively. 

Bucky said slowly, “All right.” 

“I’ll be better.” He straightened and shot again, hit a little closer to the center, and said, “ _ Fuck!” _

Bucky made another aborted movement and the kid flinched back, whole body. Clint stared at the concrete beneath his shoes, feeling cold. The world narrowed into small details. Little Clint’s hard breathing. Natasha’s hand on his arm. Bucky’s soft murmuring. 

Bucky hadn’t moved from where he stood, an arms length away from the kid, but he spoke softly. Giving little Clint time to unwind, straighten his shoulders and pretend that hadn’t happened. To stare at Bucky from under heavy-set brows, as Bucky murmured, “Hey, that was awesome, you almost got the center. That’s progres, right? I was just thinking I wanted to look at a setting on the bow. I should have asked you instead of just reaching for it. You think I could look at it for a second? It might be why its pulling to the left a bit. If not, that’s okay, but it might help.” 

The kid shoved the bow toward Bucky. “Whatever,” he muttered. “It’s yours anyway.” While Bucky had his head bent over the bow, little Clint surreptitiously wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, glaring hard the whole time. 

“Here, try it now.” 

Little Clint took the bow back and took a deep breath. He shot the arrow and it found the center of the target. A grin immediately split his face and he bounced on his toes, looking to Bucky. Clint wondered if the kid even knew he was doing it, searching for approval. It made him feel a little bit sick, and a lot stupid. No wonder Trickshot had looked at him and seen someone easy to manipulate and control. Well, of course he had been. He was a  _ kid _ . 

Bucky said, “That was great!” 

Little Clint ducked his head, hid his grin, and said softly, “Okay.”

 

* * *

They stayed on the range for hours, and by the time they went back inside, little Clint had warmed up, bolstered by the success of shooting despite the rocky start. He still walked closer to Natasha, which Clint wasn’t really surprised by at this point. But at least the kid would look at Bucky now, occasionally send him an anxious smile in response to something, if it was addressed to him. 

Somehow, without any of them noticing while they settled into the kitchen, the kid had climbed up to the top of the fridge and sat, curled into a ball. Bucky had a concerned frown on his face when he said, “Uh, should he be …?” 

Clint shrugged. “He’s fine.” He was probably a little overloaded. Clint felt overloaded. If being up there was going to make him feel better - and Clint knew it would - then he was going to let him. 

Addressing the top of the fridge, Natasha said, “Clint, are you hungry?” 

A small blonde head nodded. His hand was to his face again, chewing his thumb nail. Clint took a box of Lucky Charms out of the cabinet, poured a bowl, and handed it up to the kid. His little hand grabbed the bowl and Clint heard him give a small, happy exhalation. 

Oh, Jesus. Clint would feed him lucky charms for every meal, if it made him happy. 

“He’s not going to eat lunch,” Bucky said. 

“He’ll eat lunch,” Clint said, certain. 

The kid stayed on top of the fridge, sorting through the Lucky Charms for the best ones, until well after they had finished eating lunch. Clint just put a sandwich and a bag of chips up on the top of the fridge, and watched the kid’s hand dart out to grab it. “I’m going to be in the living room, if you need anything,” Clint said. He could just barely see the top of little Clint’s head, eyes peeking through his hair. “There’s more food in the fridge. You can eat anything you want. Just let me know if we run out of something, okay?” 

A cautious nod. 

Clint went into the living room to find Bucky on the sofa, reading something on his tablet. “Natasha go home?” he asked. He sat close to Bucky and leaned against him, suddenly feeling tired. 

“Mhm,” Bucky murmured, not taking his eyes of the screen. He lifted his arm and let Clint sink closer to his side. “Where’s the kiddo?” 

“Still taking refuge on high ground,” Clint answered. “I gave him a sandwich.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The weight of Bucky’s arm over his shoulders felt like a warm blanket. “Thanks for heading off that meltdown. You know, earlier.” 

“At the range?” Bucky asked. “Yeah, sure. The kid’s pretty tough on himself.” There was something else in his tone, layered in there. Clint knew that Bucky wasn’t going to voice it, but he also knew that it held a judgement about himself as he was now. He scowled. 

“Not like he had a choice about it,” Clint muttered. 

“I know,” Bucky answered evenly. The silence hung for a few minutes. “You think he’s going to be okay here?” he asked. 

“Of course I do,” Clint said. This situation, even as fucked up as it was, was better than the circus. If the kid really was here long-term, maybe he could … grow up a little bit better than Clint had. “He’ll be okay. He’s adjusting.” 

Bucky glanced to the doorway of the kitchen. “You think so?” 

“He’s on  _ very good _ behavior. Trust me.” 

“You are a terror.” 

They went quiet, Bucky back to his reading and Clint with his eyes closed, leaned against him. Clint was sure they both heard when the small body slid off the top of the refrigerator and landed lightly on the floor, but neither he nor Bucky twitched. Clint listened as small footsteps made their way across the living room and then went quiet. 

When he opened his eyes to check, the kid was sitting on top of the bookshelf, watching Clint and Bucky. He noticed Clint watching him, held eye contact, and ate a grape from his pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd update in a week. Oops its early? Thank you guys so much for reading! I'm overwhelmed. <3


	3. Chapter 3

 

It was a couple of hours before anyone moved again. Clint had fallen asleep against Bucky, but woke up when he heard the sounds of the kid climbing down off the bookshelf. He kept still until the kid had shuffled a few steps closer and seemed to hesitate.

Clint opened his eyes. The kid said, “My stomach hurts.”

That wasn’t surprising. And it also wasn’t surprising that the kid had climbed down, and now hovered a few feet out of reach of Clint, chewing on his lip. Bucky often complained that Clint was awful when he was hurt and worse when he was sick. He knew he was a whiny jerk, and part of him did realize that he was indulging because there hadn’t been anyone there to take care of him when he’d been younger. And even if he was a whiny jerk, Bucky would still go get him Jell-O. Before that, Natasha. Before that, Phil.

He sighed and asked, “Well, how many grapes do you have left?”

Little Clint held up four fingers.

“Uhhuh. And the sandwich, chips, a bowl of Lucky Charms --”

“Two bowls.”

Clint hid his grin. The kid was getting ballsy. Interrupting him _and_ admitting to eating more food than he was explicitly given. “And breakfast with Natasha. I bet she gave you donuts.”  

Little Clint asked, “We have donuts?”

Clint laughed. “Come here. Stop eating for like two hours. You’ll be fine.”

Bucky shifted up so Clint had more room. Little Clint shuffled forward, unsure, and Clint scooped him up. He had him wrapped firmly in a blanket and on his lap before the kid could even blink. The kid squirmed as they settled onto the couch, eventually relaxing into the embrace, his fingers rubbing the soft material of the blanket. He didn’t say anything except to give a token protest, a huffed breath and an elbow to Clint’s ribs, and then he just leaned his head against Clint’s shoulder, a small blush dusting his cheeks.

Did this count as self-indulgence? Technically, it did, didn’t it? Clint just shifted to get comfortable, and nudged Bucky to give him the remote. “Hawkeyes are playing today,” he said, and Bucky just rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The morning came with coffee, and Tony Stark. Stark didn’t even bring the coffee, which made Clint glare harder at the coffee pot as it gurgled slowly. Tony stared at the coffee machine mournfully as well. “I could make you a better one,” he offered.

“Leave ol’ Betsy alone,” Clint griped. “She does fine. What are you doing here? It is ass o’clock in the morning.”

“Paperwork,” Tony said. He glanced upward, at the space above the fridge, where little Clint sat, wrapped in a blanket and staring at him with wide, blue eyes. “Where’s Robocop?” he asked Clint.

“Running with Steve,” Clint answered, “because he doesn't love himself.”

Tony shuddered. “Eugh.” Clint shoved a mug full of coffee over the counter toward him, and Tony thanked him, and then said, “The kid’s got a birth certificate and social security number now, so he’s a real boy. Yay.”

Clint nodded. He looked up to the kid and said, “Hear that? You’re real now.”

Little Clint just kicked his heels against the front of the fridge, signed _more cereal_ and shoved his empty bowl at Clint, who rolled his eyes but took it from him.

“So, that’s why you’re here so early?” he asked Tony as he poured more Lucky Charms in the bowl. “Delivery?”

“No,” said Tony. “Just finalizing the birth certificate. We put you in the parental line, I assumed that was fine.”

“Oh,” Clint said, freezing as he held the bowl up for little Clint, who grabbed it.

Tony laughed. “Oh wow, I just saw the threat of sudden fatherhood flash across your face. Did it not occur to you?”

“No, it did, I just … not in those terms, exactly.”

“Hah,” Tony said. “So, his name is the same as yours on the certificate, I assumed that was fine. Uh …Birth year. Jarvis put him at seven? Maybe eight?”

“Nine,” Clint said. He looked up. “Right? Nine?”

The kid nodded, blonde hair flopping into his eyes.

“I’ll have Jarvis adjust it, then. Other than that, you’re good. The papers will be here tomorrow.”

Clint said, “Hey, thanks.”

Tony nodded and pushed off the counter, taking the coffee with him and escaping into the elevator. Clint yelled after him, “I want my mug back!”

He sighed, looking back up to the kid. “Only eat the marshmallows,” he told him. “I’m going to make actual breakfast. Protein is good for you.”

Little Clint nodded a bit.

Clint went to the fridge and nudged the kid’s legs until he held them straight out. He opened the fridge door and pulled out a pack of bacon, closing it again and letting the kid’s legs fall back down. “What’s up with the nonverbal morning, huh?”

The kid shrugged, eyes down while he sorted through the Lucky Charms. He signed with one hand, _you live with a lot people._

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I guess so. Tony puts us up, he’s a good guy. And there’s Steve - he’s Bucky’s best friend, he’s nice. You know Natasha, and then there’s Bruce.” He paused for a second. “And Thor. He visits more, though. Yeah, okay, it’s kind of a lot.” He frowned. “But what’s up? You’re used to people. This is a hell of a lot quieter than the circus.”

_Not._

“Not? Not what. Not quieter than the circus?”

_Not same._

Clint sighed. “Yeah? Why not?”

_B not here._

_B_ had been his home-sign for Barney, because as a kid, Clint hadn’t really understood the concept of name-signs, and the therapist had told him to use the first letter of a name, so he had. Just a flashed _B_. B for Barney.

And that almost knocked Clint over. Because yeah, it’s been years and years, and he was used to it now, but when was the last time that kid fell asleep without Barney a few feet away? And he was nine, that was before Barney started staying out later and sending Clint on to bed. Before Trick had started influencing him. That was when Barney really, _really_ was just his big brother, his protector, his security.

So how must the kid feel, thrown into a completely different world, where he and Barney don’t even _talk_ , and nothing is the same? Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Not used to sleeping alone, huh?” he finally asked.

Little Clint just shrugged again and glanced at the pan. _Bacon?_ he signed.

 

* * *

 

The kid didn’t talk much through breakfast. He mostly signed to Clint when he had to, ignored Bucky, and asked Natasha if they could go to the range. The kid looked stressed and a little cagey, so Clint was glad when she agreed, and then waved both he and Bucky to stay back.

Clint didn’t even mind that she’d left them with the cleanup. “Kid’s not doing so great this morning,” Bucky commented, bringing a stack of plates to the sink.

“He’s not used to the idea of Barney not being around,” Clint said. “He’s brought it up a few times.”  

“That makes sense,” Bucky said. “I mean, how old were you when he left?”

Clint glanced at him, but Bucky really didn’t know. He wasn’t prying or trying to prove a point. “Sixteen,” he said. “And it wasn’t so much that he left, but that he ....” He’d let Clint get shot and then abandoned him in the hospital.

Bucky shrugged away the nuance. “So the kid isn’t supposed to lose him for another … seven years.”

“Who says he’s supposed to? Why is that way the right way? Maybe it’s better this way.” Clint dropped a pan into the sink a little harder than he’d meant to.

“Maybe,” Bucky agreed. “I don’t know. Do you wish you’d been without him when you were nine?”

“I wasn’t in this fucking situation when I was nine, Bucky.” No. Clint thought back to his childhood, the early days in the circus, after running away from the foster homes. Barney had been the only thing he really had. He sighed. There was no point to that line of thought. “A lot of things that made me who I am aren’t going to happen to the kid, so I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Bucky held his hands up. “Fuck if I know what to do with him. I’m just saying. Does he even know Barney’s not like dead?”

Clint paused for a quick second. Obviously Barney wasn’t dead. Clint had looked him up, a handful of years ago. Well, Natasha had, because she knew Clint better than he knew himself most times, and learning that Barney was doing okay had made something in Clint’s chest loosen. He didn’t want to feel relieved, but still, buried under the rejection and abandonment and all the rest of it, Barney was still his big brother. He’d gone into the army while Clint had bounced around and aged out of the system, and eventually had gotten himself picked up by the FBI. He had a (relatively) safe job, and Clint had an alert set up to let him know if something bad happened. So, yeah, Barney was fine. Clint didn’t want to fucking talk to him, the asshole, but he was fine.

But what had he said to the kid? _Barney’s gone._ That was … vague, while still being true. “What the fuck does it matter?” he snapped. “End result is the same. All right?”

“Hey, don’t bite my head off,” Bucky said, sounding irritated. He reached around Clint and took the glass bowl from his hands, setting it down on the counter to dry.

Clint shoved away from him. “Don’t. Just, don’t.” His skin felt too hot and he knew he wasn’t angry at Bucky -- he shouldn’t really be angry at all, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know what to _do_.

Bucky’s hands on his shoulders, digging bruises into his skin. He tried to wrench himself away, but Bucky held firm and let Clint struggle for a little while until he gave up, and Bucky reeled him in. Clint breathed against his shoulder, hiding his face, fingers gripping Bucky’s shirt, all the wind taken out of his sails. “Fucking hell,” he muttered.   Bucky didn’t say anything, just hugged him and let his breathing slow.

They let go of each other after a while, Clint refusing to look at Bucky, who rolled his eyes. Clint went back to cleaning up breakfast.

It was a couple hours later when Natasha came back in with little Clint, who just walked right past everyone and into his bedroom.

“Cool,” Clint said. He looked to Natasha.

“He was quiet,” she said. She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Otherwise fine. Very focused.”

Clint frowned. That didn’t sound great, but the kid was still adjusting. It would be fine. “Well,” he said, “leave him for a while, I guess. If he wants to be alone, that’s fine.”

Natasha left, and for a while Bucky managed to convince Clint to do the paperwork that had been piling up. Clint whined about it, but it was work that had to be done, so he actually worked on it between the whining.

The kid didn’t come out for lunch, even though Clint knocked on the door, so he decided to leave him. He’d probably hoarded enough food that he wouldn’t go hungry, anyway. Clint should probably check on that, actually, make sure that food wasn’t rotting under the bed or attracting ants or something. Later. That sounded like a problem for later.   

It was a bit before dinner that Jarvis spoke up. He shut off the television, which had only been playing reruns of Dog Cops. But still, it made Clint sit up and say, “What the hell, Jarvis?”

“Apologies for the interruption, but I thought it might be prudent to alert you that your presence might be required in the second guest bedroom.”

“Might be?” Bucky asked.

“I suppose I don’t have particular directives, but I was under the impression that you would prefer the younger Barton not infiltrate the ventilation system.”

Clint jumped up off the couch. “Oh, damn it. How did he get the vent open?”

He burst through the door just as the kid’s sneakers disappeared up into the ceiling. Too late for Clint to stop him. “Man, come on,” he complained. “Don’t make me climb up there, I don’t fit.” Which he knew, which was why he was up there in the first place. Damn it all.   

The only response he got from the kid was the sound of him climbing further into the vents.

He blew out a frustrated breath and looked back to Bucky, who was standing in the doorway. He raised his hands and then dropped them to his sides. “We could just leave him in there,” he said.

Bucky just raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Clint said glumly. “I thought not.”  

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, new chapter! I know there wasn't quite as much cute in this chapter, but I have a plan! I really want to finish this story, so it might take a little while, but I WILL update. This is my fun writing, which I allow myself to do after my writing that I do for my actual job. Also my writing time is pretty much when the baby sleeps, so bear with me! I appreciate you all so much! You have no idea!


	4. Chapter 4

Clint had been sitting by the entrance to the vent for hours. Honestly, if he thought that he could do anything to get the kid to come out, he would have done it. But he knew himself, he begrudgingly admitted, and all of his innate stubborn, bullheaded tenacity was at its rawest in nine-year-old form. He’d mellowed with age, apparently.

Or just developed the emotional coping mechanisms and processed some of the trauma. Hey. That’s good. He was doing good. 

Eventually, he ceded defeat, leaving a snack by the entrance to the vent, and letting little Clint know that he would be in his room if he was needed, be careful up there.

* * *

 

It went on like that for a few days. They knew that he was coming down when no one was around, both because Jarvis let them know, and because food kept disappearing from the kitchen.

“We could just make him come out,” Bucky said as he watched Clint lean over the tablet that Tony had shoved at him earlier that morning. The tablet was equipped with Jarvis, who did constant wellness checks on the kid, and showed where exactly he was in the vents. It also logged his activities when he knew no one was around, and finally emerged from the vents. The kid was eating pretty regularly still, and taking food with him up into the vents. The floor itself was isolated from the other floors, so there wasn’t a danger of the kid getting too lost, and he’d crawled his way through most of the ventilation system on Clint’s floor.

“Nah,” Clint said, sounding absent, eyes on the tablet. “Can’t.”

“Why not?” Bucky said. “I got a metal arm, and I could reach him up there. He can bite all he wants.”

“Bucky, no.”

“I don’t like him hiding himself up there like he’s got something to be afraid of –”

“Well, he does, Bucky. Stop.” 

“What?” Bucky demanded. “He’s not scared of us.”

“You don’t know that.” Clint shook his head, ruffled his blonde hair. “It doesn’t matter why he’s hiding.”

“It kind of does,” Bucky said.

“Why?” Clint asked. “Is it going to help him? Is it going to stop him from being scared because the only solid thing he’s had is gone now? He’s got to figure it out himself. He’ll come down when he’s ready.”  

“I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t care if you like it,” Clint snapped. “He’s got some security up there, and we’re not going to take it away. He doesn’t trust us, and he doesn’t have to.” Clint sighed and pulled his coffee closer, breathing in the warm scent.

“What does Natasha think?” Bucky asked.

“Natasha called Barney,” Natasha said, walking into the kitchen.

“What?” Clint inhaled his coffee and choked. “You what?”

“Barney. I think we need help.” She leaned her hip against the counter and didn’t look repentant at all.

Clint stared at her. “No you didn’t.”

She nodded.

“Natasha. You had no right to do that!”

“We can’t let him live in the ceiling anymore,” she said, voice calm and smooth. “It’s been days. If he’s anything like you, he’s not going to come down.” She took his coffee and took a sip. “Like you said. He doesn’t know us. He doesn’t trust us.”

“But he trusts Barney,” Bucky said, sounding dubious.

Natasha nodded.

“Above anything else,” Clint begrudgingly admitted. “Natasha, you still had no right to call him.”

“It was the only thing left to do,” she said. “You’re –”

“I’m handling it!”

“You aren’t! Clint, why are you letting him stay up there instead of doing something about it?” she demanded. 

“Because he’s scared!” Clint said.

“No,” Natasha countered, “you’re scared.”

“Fuck off, Nat,” he said. “Don’t fucking micro-analyze me. You don’t have the fucking right to make that decision –”

“The only reason you didn’t call him immediately is because you’re both holding onto this insane guilt –”

“I don’t feel guilty about him!” Clint insisted. 

“Oh, yes, and you’re the epitome of emotional maturity and self-awareness.” Natasha didn’t let her tone change, but Clint could feel the harshness.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Clint.” She softened her tone. “You don’t think clearly about yourself, and especially about Barney. Aside from the fact that you need to work this out with him, it’s what the kid would want.”

And that made something hot and angry flash in his chest. The words were bursting out of him before he could control it. “Why the fuck do you think you know that?” he demanded, his volume too high, because he wasn’t thinking about regulating it. “Why do you think you know what he needs better than I do? He’s me. He’s _me._   But that doesn’t matter, no one listens because you all know better, right? Clint’s just a fuckup, and he doesn’t know how to handle anything. You don’t know what he wants! You don’t know what I wanted –”

Natasha shut him down with brutal efficiency, like only she could do. She stepped forward into his space, forcing him to see her and listen. “What you wanted? All right. Tell me if I’ve got it. You’re nine. You and your brother ran away from your third foster home. I think Barney made the decision, right? So it was Barney catching the abuse at that house, protecting you. You didn’t find the circus right away, so you two bummed it for a while, Barney always protecting you. He was what, thirteen?”

“Stop it, Natasha,” Clint snapped, but it lacked heat.

“And when you found the circus, it was shelter, but it came with its price, too. It was enough. Barney worked, and Trickshot took you under his wing, right? And it was bad, but not bad enough to leave.” She stepped forward. “What you _wanted_ was someplace safe. What you wanted was to close your eyes without being afraid of your father, or a foster parent, or Trick. What you wanted was your brother to see you like he did before.”  She tilted her head. “Did I get it?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“It’s going to be better,” she said. “Let Barney come talk to him.” 

“Barney’s not going to magically make it better,” he snapped. “He’s going to come in and be great for five minutes and he’s going to fucking leave him like he did me, because that’s what he does, Tasha, he bails when it gets hard, so no, I’m not going to do that to him. Barney’s gone, one fell swoop, he’s going to get over it. It’ll be better this way.”

She regarded him for a while, and then said, “He’ll be here at five.”

Clint turned away and swore at her. 

* * *

 

Bucky came to find him a while later. He sat in the hallway outside the kid’s room, elbows on his knees, eyes on the tablet.  Bucky sighed as he sat down and scooted close, pressing along Clint’s side, thigh to shoulder. “Shortround still hiding?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Clint answered. He tapped the tablet, checking the heat signatures in the vents to make sure the kid was still there, sitting in the vent just above his room. He was.

“So, when your brother gets here, should I run for cover?” Bucky asked.

Clint snorted and elbowed him in the ribs.

“No, come on,” Bucky said. “You’ve seen all my shit. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Not all of your shit.”

“Enough of it,” Bucky said.

Clint sighed. Bucky was warm against his side. “It’s not even that bad,” he said. “We talk, right?”

“Do you?” Bucky asked. “I’ve never seen you do it.”

“Like once a year, maybe.”

“Why?” he asked.

Clint smiled humorlessly. “My therapist says I have unresolved issues with men, and intimacy problems.”

“What?” Bucky asked, dryly. “No, I don’t see it.”

Clint elbowed him again, harder, and the asshole just laughed and caught his hand. Clint let him.

“Is it Barney’s fault?” Bucky asked.

“What? No.” Clint looked away. “No, we were kids. It was … you know, dad, and then. The circus. Barney protected me as much as he could. He tried to.” He looked at their joined hands. “Natasha was being a dick, but she wasn’t wrong. I don’t know how she does that.”

“Tells you all your uncomfortable truths?” Bucky asked. Clint shrugged. “He wasn’t that much older than you, was he?”

Clint shook his head. “No. Four years. Always kept me safe.” He smiled thinly. “Usually fed, too.”

“That’s the food thing, huh?” Bucky asked.

“Gotta do something about that,” Clint muttered. “He’s hiding it under the bed.”

“Maybe we need a therapist.”

Clint laughed. “Great. Start him early.”

“I mean, closer to the root of it, right? The shit that happens when you’re a kid is supposed to be pretty defining.”  

He smiled wryly. “That’s what my therapist tells me.”  

“That’s just because you’re a ball of childhood trauma,” Bucky said. “Mine tells me to deal with my adult trauma.”

“Hey,” Clint said halfheartedly, but it wasn’t anything that wasn’t true. “I have adult trauma, too.”

“Overachiever,” Bucky said.  

Clint laughed softly and leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

Predictably, Bucky ruined the moment by asking, “What happened when you were sixteen?”

Clint sighed and closed his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Come on,” he said. “You remember when I told you about that time –”

“Bucky.”

“—where I was kidnapped by Hydra –”

“Bucky, shut up.”

“—and I was tortured and brainwashed—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“—and I told you about it and I felt better—”

“Fucking hell, you’re the worst guilt tripper ever,” Clint grumbled. “I got shot,” he said.

“Barney shot you?” Bucky asked.  

“No! Don’t be stupid.”

“All right, all right, I’ll shut up. What happened?”

Clint sighed. “There was some bad stuff going on in the circus. Trick had lots of stuff – drugs and stolen goods. Barney was involved. I’d always known he was involved, and he’d always tried to keep me out of it, but I was a stubborn little shit of a kid and I resented him for trying to shelter me.” He stretched his legs out and put the tablet down on the ground next to him. “So one night some big thing was supposed to go down. I don’t know. Barney told me to stay put, so naturally I followed him. He and Trick were arguing when I got there, I don’t know if he was involved in something bad, or trying to stop him … I jumped in and took his side.”

“And Trick shot you?”

“I don’t really remember what happened,” Clint admitted. “I hit my head pretty hard when I went down, I guess. The doctors said it would be normal that I don’t remember, but I just know I ended up shot. Barney took me to the hospital. Or at least he was there when I woke up. I’d had surgery and whatever.”

“Bet he was pretty scared,” Bucky said.

“What, Barney?” Clint asked, thrown off.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve been the person waiting in the hospital for your best friend, wondering if that nurse was going to come out looking sympathetic.”

“I guess,” Clint said doubtfully.

“It was probably scary for both of you, is all.” Bucky shrugged.

Clint frowned. “Yeah. I guess. Anyway, I woke up and I was ready to go, and he left.”

“What, he just left?” Bucky asked.

“Told me I wasn’t going with him, and he left.” Clint shrugged, trying to brush it off. “So, you know, back into the system. I aged out after two years, so whatever.” 

“Did you try to find him after that?” Bucky asked.

“No. I mean, I looked. He wasn’t easy to find, so I figured he didn’t want me to bother him anyway.”

“Ah,” Bucky said. “So you decided for him that he didn’t want you to be a burden.”

“Shut up,” Clint said. “You’re not my therapist.”

Bucky grinned. “I don’t know, I spent so much time with ‘em, that should count for something, right? Clinical hours?”

“I don’t think it counts when you’re the patient.” 

“No?” Bucky mused. “Huh.”

Clint snorted and leaned his head back down against Bucky’s shoulder. A sound from down the hallway made him lift his head, and then he froze.

Barney stood there, near the elevator. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and he had his lips pressed together, like he wasn’t sure he’d be received well. Which, fair. Clint wasn’t sure if he’d be received well, either. They hadn’t physically seen each other since Clint was a teenager, but Barney still had the same shock of red hair, the same thin nose. They both looked similar enough that there was no mistaking they were brothers; they shared the blue eyes and their jawline, along with the Barton stubbornness.

When the silence stretched and Clint didn’t offer anything, Barney shifted his weight and finally said, “Hey, little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yes hello. This only took forever to update, I realize. I'm sorry. As I've said before, this is my reward for doing my actual writing job work, so here we are. >> I DO have a plot and it WILL finish. Eventually. I feel like this chapter was a lot of talking and backstory. Things will pick up in the next -- we'll get bby Clint AND some Barney. It'll be fun. Yay. 
> 
> Social interaction feeds my soul. Leave me a comment and I'll love you forever. 
> 
> If anyone wants to leave me asks on tumblr and harass me to write, or just tell me jokes to make me happy, or just cry about sad marvel bbs with me, or just lurk, my tumblr is the same as here, capforgetful. I'm ALWAYS up for chatting. God, I talk so much.


	5. Chapter 5

 

“So Romanoff wasn’t super clear about what’s actually going on?” Barney asked. He sat across from Clint in the hallway now. Bucky had sensed the thick awkwardness that hung in the air, and had excused himself.

Dick.

Clint stayed as he had been, tablet propped up on his knees with the monitoring system on the bedroom where Little Clint had holed up. “Yeah, she does that.”

“So, there’s a kid?” Barney asked.

“Yeah,” Clint said shortly. He hadn’t looked up from the tablet, where he could watch the heat signature of the kid in the ceiling and feel a little bit better. He knew that he was giving everything away with his body language and tone of voice; shoulders hunched, arms crossed, no eye contact. Closed up and defensive. He was feeling weirdly ragged, cut open and raw after talking to Bucky. He hadn’t talked about any of that stuff in a long time, and it mattered a little bit more when he told it to Bucky, not a blank-faced Shield psychiatrist.

Surely Barney knew how to read that, and he knew that Clint didn’t want him here.

Still, he pressed on in the face of being so obviously unwanted. “Man, I gotta tell you, I didn’t think it’d be you with a kid before me. But I guess it had to happen to one of us.” He stretched out his legs across the hallway, taking up Clint’s space like he belonged there. Clint raised his eyes a little to glare at Barney.

“He’s not _my kid_ ,” Clint snapped.

“Oh, hey, so it’s a boy. Congrats.” Barney’s grin stretched over his face.

“Fuck off, Barney,” Clint said, suddenly feeling exhaustion catch up with him. He was going to have to explain the situation then. Damn Natasha for meddling in the first place, and damn her for making Clint explain everything.

She did it so that they had something to talk about. He knew her game. Didn’t mean he liked it.

“I feel like a kid isn’t something you couldn’t probably deal with on your own, though,” Barney said. “So why call Uncle Barney?” 

“Brother,” he said.

“What?” Barney asked.

“You’re his brother,” Clint said tiredly. “Not his uncle.”

At least Barney wasn’t grinning any more. It gave Clint some kind of deep satisfaction to see the mask slip.

“What does that mean?” Barney asked. 

Clint sighed. “Look, it’s the kind of weird shit that happens to me, okay? I don’t really understand it, but Stark assures us that it makes sense. The kid is me.”

“The kid is you,” Barney said, skepticism apparent in his tone.

“Yeah,” Clint said. “It’s me. As a kid. Some kind of … time worm hole, folding like a paper, I don’t know. But whatever. The kid is me. Nine-year-old version of me. He’s staying.”

“So, there’s a nine-year-old Clint Barton in that bedroom?” Barney asked. “Bullshit.”

“Technically,” Clint said, “he’s not in the bedroom. He’s in the ceiling above the bedroom. Been there for days. Barney, do you really think you’d be here if it wasn’t fucked up?” Clint asked. “It’s all fucked up. I’m really fucked up.” He tangled his hands in his hair and tugged. “Jesus Christ.”

“So the kid – you – found a bolt-hole?” Barney asked. “And you’re surprised?”

“It’s been days,” Clint argued. “He’s seemed fine.”

“Right,” Barney said, and now he sounded skeptical but also critical. “Because you’ve always been honest about your emotions. You never put on a face.”

Clint stared at him, frowning, and said, “Don’t fucking shrink me, Barn.”

Barney held up his hands. “He never tried to hide before this?” he asked.

He had. Clint clenched his jaw and mostly hated this because Barney was right. Damn Natasha for calling him. Wasn’t it bad enough that she saw through him? Why didn’t they just put a sign up that said, “Clint Barton’s Biggest Insecurities” and let everyone have a go? “Yeah,” he answered. “He did. I’ve kept him on the ground.”

“Okay,” Barney said. “Did something happen? How old are you in there?”

“Nine,” Clint said.

“So, after the foster homes.”

“But before Trick got real bad, yeah,” Clint said. It felt like some kind of fragile thing between them, the glass bubble of this conversation. They talked now, after everything, but they’d never really _talked_. They’d never brought up the _bad_ they’d only picked up and moved forward. Maybe it had always sat between them, unspoken except for damage leftover on both of them. “But no. Nothing happened. Just … sulked off. I don’t know.” Clint swallowed down the emotion in his throat, which he realized came from feeling helpless and frustrated when confronted with a problem that he couldn’t fix himself. “Asked for you,” he admitted.

“He did?” Barney asked cautiously.

“A few times.” Clint looked down at the tablet, to keep his hands busy, not to escape his brother’s gaze. “Stopped talking earlier today. He’d sign a bit, but I’m the only one who knows sign any more, and …” he shrugged.

“How’s his hearing?” Barney asked. “At nine …?”

“It wasn’t too bad. Got worse later. I was still getting by fine in the beginning.”

Barney sighed. “Man, I don’t know if I remember enough sign.”

Clint shrugged. “He can talk, it’s fine.”  

“But he doesn’t want to, so, how’m I supposed to know what he says?” Barney waved a hand. “I’ll see what I remember. It’s probably fine.”

Clint wished he could just have that brazen confidence that everything would work out fine. He just had a lot of experience that stated otherwise. “Fine, sure.”

“So, you want me to go try to get him to come down?” Barney asked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Clint said. “He’ll come down on his own eventually, so I don’t know why you’re here, but yeah. Go ahead.”

Barney scrunched up his eyes doubtfully. “No he won’t,” he said.

“What?”

“Clint,” Barney said, “I don’t know if you remember very well, but you were a squirrely little stubborn asshole of a kid.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Clint said. “Jesus Christ. You can leave.”

“Nah, come on. I’m serious. If you decided you were hiding, you weren’t coming out. You’d hole up for days. The only reason you came out sometimes was because I knew your hiding places.”  

“That’s not true,” Clint said, feeling defensive.

“I used to bring you food, Clint,” he said. “You used to hide up in the tree in the back, when dad got real bad, and after when it was over, I used to sneak out to bring you food.” He leaned forward to emphasize his point. “You used to sleep outside, little bro. Trust me. I have a better working memory of this shit than you do. I was older.”

And he was the one who couldn’t hide from their father. Clint looked away and focused on the door handle so he had something to look at. He remembered that tree, but only in impressions. Being safe and sheltered. The scrape of bark against his cheek when he closed his eyes. _No one looks up_ , _don’t breathe, no one can hurt you._ He remembered that his parents had stopped looking for him after a while, trusting that he’d turn up eventually. They’d never found him.

“I was way younger when I did that,” Clint protested. “That’s not what this is.”

Barney raised his eyebrows. “And in the circus, you never did anything like that,” he said.

He used to hide in the rafters. Less often, but it was still essentially the same. “I always came down on my own,” he said.

“Yeah,” Barney said. “After I came to find you.”

It wasn’t really a point that Clint could argue with, but that didn’t make it any easier to listen to.  “Just, go get him down,” Clint said roughly.

Barney stared at him for a beat or two more, and then stood up.

* * *

 

Clint watched on the monitor. It felt a little like spying, and a little like an invasion of privacy. But, well, the kid was him, so normal rules probably didn’t really apply. The cameras were still displaying in infrared, so that he could see the kid’s heat signature in the vent. Barney came in and sat down on the bed. He’d gesture with his hands every once in a while, so Clint assumed he was talking.

It went like that for a while. Bucky and Natasha either had something to do, or they were purposely leaving him alone to deal with his own emotional issues, which was, either way, not appreciated.

He could see the roots of his abandonment issues taking shape, and he was not touching that with a ten-foot pole. No, thank you. This was why he didn’t ever see Barney.

It took a while before Clint saw the kid move. But eventually, slowly, he edged closer to the opening of the vent. It seemed like a big moment, when the kid eventually slipped through the opening and landed on the floor in a heap, but it happened in a few seconds.

Clint switched the video over to regular so he could see them, and little Clint blinked up from a pile on the floor. The kid stared at Barney like he’d never seen him before. But, it was probably weird seeing him as he was now, much older than he’d last seen his brother.

Maybe it was weirder than seeing yourself as an adult. He _knew_ Barney, like he knew himself.

Barney scooted off the bed and sat on the floor, legs crossed. Hands on his knees. The picture of nonthreatening. The kid said something, and Barney answered, lips smiling, but his eyes were cautious. The kid didn’t notice, and he kept on. They were talking back and forth now, Barney coaxing answers out of little Clint, who reluctantly gave them.

The kid scooted closer each time, though, like Barney wouldn’t notice him edging into his space if he was careful. Eventually, when he was close enough, Barney just rolled his eyes a little and wrapped his arms around little Clint, drawing him into his lap. The kid went stiff for a few seconds, and then relaxed, whole-body, against Barney.

Barney was still talking, overtly joking and teasing. Clint could see it in his mannerisms, and the way his mouth formed words. Despite not having seen him in person for years, Clint still knew his brother. But it was also different – he was being more gentle than Clint had ever seen.

It was weird. Barney was handling the kid like he was a kitten that could fit into the palm of his hand. Like he was made of glass, like something small and breakable.

And the kid looked more relaxed than Clint had seen him so far. Maybe it was what the kid needed.

It was certainly something that Clint had never gotten. And, well, if the kid had enough security left in Barney to get that safety from him, then, fine. That was good.

At least the kid was out of the vents now. Whatever. They’d see how long that lasted, before Barney left, and then he’d be right back where he was.

Clint pushed himself to his feet, so he wasn’t sitting there outside the door when they finally decided to leave. He took the monitor with him, though. He felt a little bit like a creep, but that also wasn’t going to stop him from watching.

They stayed in the room together until the sun started to set, and Clint watched.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this update took a minute! Thank you so much for reading! This story is one of my favorite things to write right now <


	6. Chapter 6

 

The first time anyone but Barney sees the kid, he’s sulking into the dining room. Which was, Clint thought, pretty fitting.

God, they had to address the food thing, probably.

Little Clint sat himself in the dining room chair that was closest to the exit without having his back to the room, and glared up at Barney through his fringe. Barney breezed into the room with a half-smile resting on his lips, and plopped himself in the chair next to the kid, like he was immune to the stare that Little Clint was giving him.

Big Clint, too, if he was being honest with himself. He looked away and tried to smooth over his features. He didn’t entirely feel like doing it, but Barney had at least gotten the kid out of the walls, so fine, he deserved at least a neutral expression.

Bucky had been silently hovering since Clint had appeared in the kitchen to help with dinner. He had no intention of saying anything, Clint knew that, but he also knew that Bucky was worried. Clint could feel him watching out of the corners of his eyes. Eventually Clint had sighed and grabbed Bucky by the front of his shirt, reeling him in to press a kiss to his lips, firmly.

“Stop,” he’d said. Tried to sound stern and annoyed and like he was _fine_ , but he missed the mark.

Bucky had just grinned and leaned in for another kiss. Whatever tension that had been lingering between them had dissipated after that.

Cooking with Bucky was one of those stupidly domestic things that Clint wouldn’t ever admit to loving, but he loved. Bucky was tactile and handsy, which, on a good day, usually ended with food burning while they made out. But with Clint’s subdued mood, Bucky toned it down to casual touches and standing a little too close. Instead of making Clint feel edgy and crowded, it just felt … nice. Like Bucky wanted to be close to him, as if he could fix any of this by physically shielding Clint with his own body.

So Clint had gone into dinner bolstered and feeling a little bit better. At least until he saw Barney.

Stupid goddamn flaky red-headed asshole. 

 He brought his own plate of food to the table, and a plate for the kid. Bucky and Natasha slipped into the empty seats around the table, and as Clint sat, he told Barney, “Food’s on the stove.”

He put the plate down in front of Little Clint as Barney answered, “What, you didn’t bring me any?”

“No,” Clint said shortly. He’d decided to go for simple foods, like he’d been doing the past few days with the kid in mind. Chicken, rice, green beans. Things that he should know. They’d save Bruce’s curry for a later time. 

Barney frowned down at the kid’s plate of food, which Clint had loaded with way more than he knew the kid could ever eat. He couldn’t seem to help it. “But I’m a guest,” Barney said.

“And you have two fucking feet that work. Go get your own goddamn dinner,” Clint snapped.

And Barney’s response was to grin at that. Of course it was. Clint clenched his teeth together to hold back the anger that surged up, hot and visceral. Barney asked, “Touchy, little bro?”

Clint put his hands on the table and unclenched his teeth. He saw Bucky, to his left, tilt his head a little like he wanted to say something. Clint forced himself to cool off. “Are you really going to be an asshole with me right now?”

Right now, when Barney knew that he wasn’t going to react like he truly wanted to, specifically because Little Clint was sitting right there. Barney held up his hands, palms facing outward, and made a face like he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He said, “Don’t lose your cool, man, it was just a question,” and got up to get himself some food.

In the resulting silence that followed, Clint watched the kid pick at his food. Roll a green bean around. Frown at it. Natasha sat next to Clint, on his other side, and she just watched, her face impassive.  It was the kind of impassive that meant that she was taking in the interactions, gleaning way more than she should about the implications of the relationships involved. He was used to that. Her absolute stillness, though, that meant something different, and he was honestly too exhausted to deal with it.

Ignoring his problems hadn’t failed him yet, so he was definitely going to go that route with the Natasha situation.

When Barney came back, he plopped himself back down next to Little Clint, and then promptly leaned over and said, “Aw, man, we had bread? I didn’t get any. Give me some.”

He poked at Little Clint’s plate, and the kid snatched the bread up and complained, “Stop, Barney,” in a tone that was a little angry.

It was a lot like Clint’s _Fuck Off Barney_ tone, but smaller and less tired. But Barney just grinned and tried again to grab for the bread. Little Clint jabbed out his elbow to fend him off, but he was little and Barney was not.                         

“Jesus Christ, Barney,” Clint snapped, having watched silently until he couldn’t any more. “Just let him fucking eat.”

Barney rolled his eyes, but he sat back in his own chair and relented. The quiet at the table was suffocating and awful, and Clint just studiously went back to eating his own food, trying his best to ignore Barney.

Little Clint nibbled on his food for a while before spearing a green bean with his fork and tugging on Barney’s sleeve. Barney glanced at him. “What?” he asked, dismissive.

Clint cut his eyes up to the two of them to watch the exchange, already beginning to feel angry on his younger self’s behalf. The kid held up the green bean on his fork and asked, signing, “What’s this?”

Guess they were back to signing rather than speaking.

“It’s a green bean,” Barney said. “What do you mean what is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Little Clint insisted. His signs were small and only for Barney, barely moving his hands. “Tastes weird.”

“It’s just a green bean, kid. Eat it.”

“I don’t want it.” Little Clint pulled it off his fork to push it to the edge of his plate. “Tastes weird,” he insisted.

And all at once, Clint realized that he could very clearly remember the first time that he’d eaten green beans that weren't canned. He remembered the texture of them, and the weird green taste, not washed out and flavored by metal.

He hadn’t liked the taste of food that hadn’t come from a fucking can.

Clint felt his face heat and spared a moment to be thankful that Bucky probably didn’t catch everything Little Clint had signed. Had no idea how much Natasha had caught, but the answer was probably: all of it.

By the time Clint was done with his revelation, Little Clint had already moved on. He shoved Barney’s arm. Signed, “I’m done.”

“Okay,” Barney said.

His hands said, “I wanna go.” He tugged on Barney’s sleeve again.

“So, go.” Barney shook him off.

Clint glared across the table at him, and the kid sulked up at him. “What?” Barney asked, giving Clint a pointed look.

“ _Barney,_ ” the kid said, out loud with his voice.

It didn’t seem to faze Barney, though. “I’m not stopping you,” Barney told the kid.

Little Clint yanked on Barney’s arm one last time before giving a huge sigh and sulking off. He shoved his plate away, slid off his chair, and left the dining room.

Clint felt a hot flare of anger fist up inside his throat, but he waited until he felt a door close at the end of the hallway before he said anything. “I swear to god, what’s the fucking point of you being here if you’re just going to be a jackass to him?” he snapped, his voice harsher than it had been.

Barney just set his fork down calmly. “Uh, he’s not in the ceiling any more?”

“You don’t know that,” Clint said heatedly.  

“Yeah, I do,” Barney said. “And I’d call it a win on my end.”

“Oh, would you?” Clint shoved his own plate away, too twisted up inside to eat anything else.

Barney breezed over him. “Also, if he has a problem with me being a jackass, he can say something.”

Clint wanted to throw something. Or strangle him. Or both. “You _know_ he won’t do that!”

“Why not?” Barney demanded. “You call me a jackass all the time. I don’t remember a minimum age cap on that. Do you?”

“Because you’re an _adult_ and he’s a _kid._ ” Clint leaned forward, hands on the table. “You think he’s going to come at you all confrontational and call you a jackass because you’re being mean to him? When did I _ever_ do that to an adult?”

Barney rose to meet him, like he couldn’t help it, and now they were both on their feet. “What do you want me to do? Coddle him? Is that what you’d like to see?”

He _had_ been. Clint had seen him being gentle and soft, when he’d thought no one was watching. “Not being a jackass to the traumatized kid would be like the minimum place to start, yeah.”

“Clint,” Barney said, his tone stupidly patient and condescending. Clint immediately glared. “What would you have done if I’d come at you with Adult Parental Concern and tried to gentle you into eating your fucking dinner?”  

Clint made a face.

“Yeah,” Barney said. “I’m supposed to come in here as his brother – as someone familiar that he can trust. So I’m not going to come in here like every other adult he’s interacted with.”

“I didn’t _do that_. I’m not coddling him.”

Again, Barney held up his hands. “I get it. Okay? But what I’m saying is that we’ve got a … a way that we do things, and if I’m suddenly all concerned and nice he’s going to freak out. And it’s fucked up, right?” Barney laughed a little. “Like, you do get that we’re fucked up, right?”

“Shut up,” Clint snapped. God, he was already having everything dug up, his emotions strung up and on display, just by the kid’s presence. He really didn’t need Barney here verbalizing everything else.

Barney looked across the table at him for a beat. “Why didn’t you call me? In the first place?” he asked. “It would have made sense, especially if he was asking about me.”

Clint straightened, felt the way the anger pulsed out of his body, leaving a swirling mess of feelings in his stomach. Hot and sick and then, at the end, just tired. “He didn’t need to be abandoned again,” he finally said.

He pushed away from the table, much like his younger self had done earlier, and left the dining room, leaving Natasha and Bucky to do the clean-up. He didn’t stop to see Barney’s expression on his way out. Didn’t stop to think.

He’d been talking about the kid, but he was scared that what he meant was _I didn’t need to be abandoned again._

* * *

 

 

It was a couple of hours later before someone came to find him. Of course, naturally, instead of someone he liked coming to find him, it was Natasha.

She probably got to Bucky first and made him agree to let her talk to him.

Clint frowned and turned back to the television and pretended to be really engrossed in a commercial about a cleaning product. Natasha stopped just inside the room, and stayed there. Clint could see her out of the corner of his eye, just hovering there, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to come in.

“Hey,” she called, testing the waters.

Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only because he was a specially trained spy, and he didn’t want her to know that she’d gotten to him. “Hey,” he answered.

“Can I join you?” she asked. Her voice was low and even, neutral. It wasn’t actually as carefree as she was trying to make it sound. Clint could tell the difference.

He didn’t take his eyes off the television. It was now airing a commercial for the local animal shelter. Aw, dogs. “Does it matter if I say no?” he muttered.

She was quiet for a beat, and then she moved into the room. “I guess that’s fair,” she admitted. She sat on the sofa next to him, staying carefully on her cushion, not touching Clint. After dinner, she had changed into tights and a big hoodie – Clint thought that it might have at one point belonged to himself. It was worn and soft, dark green, and far too large on her small frame. It had the effect of making her look small. Vulnerable. Clint wished he knew if she’d done it on purpose, for his benefit, or because she felt small, and was willing to make that visual admission.

God, talking to Natasha was so much work when she was like this.   

“Are you wearing the hoodie to try to put me at ease, or because you’re feeling like you need a comfort item?” Clint asked. He didn’t have it in him to dance around anything or mince words. She was usually really good about being straight with him, but right now, he didn’t know.

She looked down at her hands, fingertips just poking out of the sleeves. “I guess a bit of both,” she said. “You’re mad at me.”

She said it like she was observing the weather. Clint snorted. “I’m … Natasha, I wish I had the energy to be mad at you. I really do.” He didn’t know what he was right now. Tired.

“Its easier to be mad at your brother,” she answered. “Right?”

“Like muscle memory,” Clint agreed. That anger that flared up when Barney was around always lived in his chest, just below his sternum. Twisting and hurting and ready to flare up at the slightest provocation

Natasha was quiet for a few long seconds. “I still think it was the right thing to do for little you,” she said, finally. “I’m not going to apologize for calling Barney.”

“I know.” Clint didn’t want to admit that he thought she was probably right. The kid hadn’t climbed back into the vents yet. Barney was in his room with him again, but now Clint had a tight ball of anxiety in his chest about it.

God, but Barney was such as asshole.

Natasha was studying him, and Clint didn’t know what else to tell her. “I get it,” he said. “I just wish I didn’t have to talk to him.”

“You guys made contact at least once a year,” she said. “I’ve even talked to him, independently. But I’ve never seen you two actually interact.” Clint didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t answer. It was quiet for a beat, and then Natasha continued, “You two have a ton of issues.”  

He snorted. “No shit,” he muttered. “Did you use all your KGB skills to figure that one out?”

“It was pretty easy to put together,” she answered.

Clint sighed and rested back against the sofa, feeling tired in his bones. “There’s a lot of shit to unpack with him,” he said. “A lot of stuff that’s better left buried.”

“I know,” she answered. She somehow ended up sitting a little closer to him, her thigh pressing against his, and Clint closed his eyes and accepted the comfort. “Maybe you should try talking some of it out, since he’s going to be here for a little while.” She smiled a little, sadly. “For your own sake.”

“Ha,” Clint said. “Right. For me. Little me.”

“Little you,” Natasha agreed. She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re really embarrassed by him, aren’t you?”

And that was why conversations with Natasha were oftentimes agonizing. She smoothed down all of Clint’s bristled fur and then stabbed right at the heart of the issue. Clint opened his mouth to counteract what she’d said, or demand to know where she’d gotten that idea, but his throat was too tight, and he couldn’t say anything for a minute.

That was the heart of all of this, wasn’t it? He’d worked for so much of his adult life to build walls and bury all of that shit. But the nine-year-old couldn’t do that. He hadn’t learned how to shove it all down yet, and hadn’t formed all the unhealthy coping mechanisms. And Clint probably shouldn’t expect him to.

“Don’t you think that’s fair?” he asked, his voice dry. He couldn’t look at her. The television was playing another commercial, but he didn’t even absorb it.

Natasha was quiet for a while, pressed to his side like a warm blanket. “I think,” she said finally, and her tone was quiet and gentle, “that you should probably ease up a little on all that self-hatred.”  She took a slow breath, like she was giving Clint a moment to process that.

Clint felt an immediate jolt of denial, but beneath that was a tangle of fear and acceptance. Because Natasha knew him probably better than anyone on earth. If Clint saw better from a distance, Natasha saw better when she was pressed up close, breathing the same air.  

Natasha moved her hand to cover his own, which was sitting unmoving on his thigh. Her fingers wrapped around his tight and squeezed. “For your own sake,” she murmured.

Clint didn’t say anything, and Natasha stayed pressed close.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends! Aah, this took too long. Man, life gets at you. I can't promise timeline, but I do promise I'll keep on keeping on with this story. <3 Meanwhile, look, Clint and Barney! Natasha being Natasha! There's just so much dysfunction to go around. 
> 
> You guys give me life, seriously. <3 Thank you for reading.


End file.
